CHAPTER 72: ENOUGH IS WEALTH ITSELF

The news of Luminia’s fall spread across the continent like wildfire. Kingdoms that once measured Velmora with suspicion now measured it with fear. Not a single banner was raised against them. No army marched to test their strength. The message was clear—Velmora had shown its fangs, and no one wished to be the next prey.

In the castle, Clinton sat in the war chamber, the heavy silence pressing on him more than the voices of a hundred courtiers. His eyes wandered to the throne at the far end of the hall. The seat of kingship, carved from black stone, glimmered faintly in the light of torches.

His hand tightened around the armrest of his chair. Why did Father choose me? he thought, his jaw tense. Why me, and not Christopher? Is it only because I carry the king’s true blood? Does blood matter more than strength, more than talent?

He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of that question gnawing at him.

Two days passed since the flames had swallowed Luminia’s borders. The land Velmora captured—nearly five hundred square kilometers—was theirs to keep, its villages now draped in their banners. Resistance was gone. Luminia had bent its knee.

An advisor entered, bowing low before Clinton. His voice was steady, but there was a trace of surprise in his words.

"My lord, Luminia has sent word. They have formally yielded the land we took. And... they are asking for a deal. That Velmora will not advance further, and in return, we may keep what we have gained."

Clinton let out a laugh, short and sharp.

"A deal? They think they’re in a position to make a deal?" He shook his head, disbelief clear in his eyes. "What did Christopher say to this?"

The advisor hesitated only a moment. "Lord Christopher said... we should accept."

Clinton froze. His laughter died, replaced by confusion. "What? He said that?"

"Yes, Your Highness. Those were his words."

For a long moment, Clinton said nothing. He tapped his fingers on the armrest, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

"...Very well. If Christopher says so, then we shall accept the deal."

His eyes lifted once more toward the black stone throne.

Even when he is not sitting there, his shadow stretches over everything.

.....

Inside the castle of Luminia, the suffocating tension finally loosened the moment word arrived—Velmora had accepted the deal. For days, everyone had lived in dread, unsure if their lands, their homes, even their lives would be swallowed next. Now, though the price was steep, survival felt like a small mercy.

But relief did not mean peace.

In the training yard outside the castle, the sound of steel echoed again and again. Theron’s sword cut through the air, heavy and unrelenting. His palms were raw, his grip broken, blood seeping down the hilt. Still, he swung. Again and again. Until his arms trembled. Until every breath was pain.

He was the son of the Flaming General—Ardyn. The man whose name had once been the pride of Luminia, a shield of fire who guarded their people. Now, that shield was shattered. Killed. Cut down not by one, but cornered, outnumbered. Theron’s teeth clenched. His face twisted with rage.

"I promise you, Father..." he whispered hoarsely, the words breaking against the lump in his throat. His arms shook as he lifted the sword once more. "I’ll take revenge on that Christopher. That shameless bastard... I’ll kill him."

Hot tears fell onto the dirt. But still he raised the sword. Still he swung. The blade hissed through the air, each strike fueled by grief, by shame, by helpless anger.

Inside the castle walls, no one celebrated. How could they? They had lost more than land. They had lost countless soldiers—brothers, sons, fathers. And above all, they had lost the heart of their army, their blazing pillar of hope: General Ardyn.

The deal with Velmora had spared their nation. But the scars of that loss ran deeper than any map could measure.

Luminia lived on—but it lived in shame.

.......

The roads trembled beneath the weight of countless hooves. The army of Velmora was finally returning home. Horses stretched as far as the eye could see, banners swaying above the sea of armored men. At the very front rode Christopher, his armor streaked with blood and rain, beside the stern Defense Minister Havlor.

The air was heavy with victory, yet Havlor’s brows knit with dissatisfaction. He turned slightly toward Christopher, his voice sharp.

"Christopher, why did you agree to that deal? We could have pressed further. Taken more land. Killed more. Luminia was on its knees—we could have broken them completely."

Christopher did not look at him. His gaze stayed fixed straight ahead, cold and unwavering, as if the horizon itself was more worthy of attention than the minister’s words.

At last, his reply came—his tone calm, but chilling.

"Greed is not good."

Havlor blinked.

Christopher’s voice deepened, each word deliberate, like steel being hammered into place.

"Don’t take everything from a man. If you strip him of all he has, he no longer fears death. He becomes dangerous. Desperate men burn nations."

For a moment, silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic pounding of hooves on muddy ground. Soldiers behind them exchanged glances, uneasy at the icy stillness in Christopher’s words.

"We already gave our message to the surrounding countries," Christopher continued, his tone colder than the rain-soaked wind. "They’ve seen what happens when Velmora moves. They’ve stopped their attacks, and they fear us now. That is enough. Knowing when to stop—knowing when to pull back—is the difference between victory and ruin, Now it’s time to go back."

Havlor shifted in his saddle, the urge to argue still flickering in his eyes, but something in Christopher’s voice silenced him. It wasn’t just authority—it was conviction, carved out of cruelty and clarity alike.

The army rode on. Behind them lay ashes and broken lands. Ahead, the gates of Velmora awaited, ready to receive its blood-soaked conquerors.